self-indulgent musings on fashion, food and other sundries

Archive for June, 2010

This is Ben. He proudly soldiered the corner of 21st and 5th as the Parade passed by. I don’t know how he managed to do it in 91 degree weather, but he looked cooler fully covered and in leather boots than I did in a tank top and cutoffs. I think it was the hair and the outfit.

And while I didn’t get her name, I had to get her picture. She was perfection on a stoop.

One of the first photos I took with my Canon Rebel XS, and it remains a favorite. It’s a picture that makes me love New York in the pit of my stomach – the near-hidden basement pottery studio, the random vine of Christmas lights snaking around the railing, the glow of light in the distance, the painted brick wall, the gritty, gray sidewalk lit up by the yellow bike with steely wheels…even the black trash bags that I initially saw as an obstruction, but now embrace as an authentic element of the city’s sidewalks. It captures the feeling of turning onto a street that you may have walked a thousand times, but for whatever reason, suddenly feels new and uncharted. I sense that this is a picture I would want to avoid looking at if I ever had to leave New York…

Ladies, I’m not quite sure where we go from here. While I am an ardent supporter of high heels and the general notion of elongating the leg, I fear we have reached our end point. My 5.25″ greige suede almond toe platform pumps have climbed to the tippiest top of Mt. Stiletto, and while my calves have never looked better, I suspect that the only eyes that will see them are the ones that look back at me in the mirror. It’s no surprise that with our natural inclination to outdo ourselves, designers would equate (and women would hastily agree) improved aesthetic of high heels with, well, a higher heel of course. But when this reaches a point where one is relegated to clomping around like a petrified horse, well then ladies, we’re either going to have to start funding research for hypermobile joint creation or start doing a lot more entertaining at home. Which isn’t, of course, a bad idea at all. Think of all the fabulous loungewear you’ve always been tempted to pass off as evening wear (oops, does that sound trashy?)– now you can drape them on for any indoor occasion that calls for fancy footwear, in your non-judgmental home quarters– and you won’t have to worry about being mistaken for a hooker who can’t even work the streets right.

When my sister and I were little, we’d play a game where we’d come up with crayon color names. Mom would be in the sale section of Macy’s Home and we’d traipse off to the bedding department and weave our way through the displays, combing our fingers across satin duvets and 800 thread-count pillow cases. A sheeny, silvery-purple set of Calvin Klein sheets became Lavendar Mist, just as Mom paid for her purchase and waved us over. It was enough to make me want to run home and melt down my purple and silver Crayolas in the same dish to see what would happen.

Last Saturday I played a version of this game by myself when I bit into what seemed to be a bad pistachio; when I discarded the questionable substance into my napkin, I was taken aback by the intense green bits that had burst from its ordinary, papery beige skin. It was a totally delightful moment (though admittedly not my classiest. I hope it goes without saying that the above picture is a recreation of said event).

Regardless, the moment warranted the christening of an imaginary crayon: Crushed Pistachio. Crushed Pistachio is marvelous. It reminds me that nature produces unadulterated beauty. Crushed Pistachio belongs on a scarf… a smattering of crushed pistachios on a whisper-thin sheet of gray silk. Or as a gauzy tie-dyed tank top, with bursts of pistachio and lavendar under a crisp, white blazer. Crushed Pistachio is my new favorite crayon, and it makes me want to take my very best Barbie coloring book off the bookshelf, turn to my favorite uncolored page of Barbie in an ball gown, and ever so carefully fill the lines in with my very best work. And after that, I would of course, pass the crayon over to my sister.

I love them with the silliest, most frivolous, child-like enthusiasm – when I have them on, they make me stretch out my leg and point my toe and giggle. They are girlish, boyish, nerdy, and cool, all rolled into one. The cut-outs keep your look open and airy for the summer, and the tan color extends your leg for miles. And, they’re flat!– so you can prance around the streets of NYC with freedom and abandon, and make-believe you’re 8 years old again.